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The story described how, during your sophomore year in college, you met a man named Robert when you were working in a movie theater, exchanged some funny and flirtatious texts with him, then took a study break to meet him for a snack at a 7-Eleven, which led to an awkward date and even more awkward sex.

This is very different from him messaging you at 1 a.m.

to swing by a party and pick him up, so you meet his friends fleetingly. He really goes out of his way to see you, even if he’s already seen you a few times this week.

But having sex with sketchy guys you don’t actually know after (by a generous estimation) 1.5 dates is a bad idea.

You get to present a better version of yourself than you really are in the moment. The drinking you two do happens right after a movie, with no dinner in between, which means you had those three beers on an empty stomach.

In all of the responses that people — mostly young women like you — have written about your experiences, few have mentioned the two words in your story that jumped out at me: “seven” and “three.” Robert is your seventh sexual partner. Margot, I don’t know what the right number is for you, but seven is too many.

Please don’t mistake my concern for “slut-shaming.” I don’t think you’re a bad or immoral person.

Young women are responding to your tale by saying that much the same thing happened to them.